


Stray Puppy

by EmSheshan



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Cute, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Rain, Sharing an umbrella, Sneezing, Writing Party: Umbrella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25940461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmSheshan/pseuds/EmSheshan
Summary: Richard Starkey meets a young boy on a miserable, rainy, Hamburg night.
Relationships: George Harrison & Ringo Starr, George Harrison/Ringo Starr
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	Stray Puppy

Richard Starkey was an average sort of fella. He liked nice things and had a disdain for the unpleasant. He liked to sleep in until three in the afternoon and party until he passed out. 

And there was one lesson he had learned very early on in life: you gotta serve yourself first.

He grew up poor, had no childhood due to illness, and was now wandering the streets of Hamburg with nothing but a cheap coat and a shoddy umbrella. How'd he get in this situation, you ask? Well, he thought he'd do a favor for his buddy.

_ "Come on, Ritchie, I'll make it up to ya later!" _

Well, he better, and that was all Richard had to say about that. Rory had found a girl he fancied and asked (more like stole) Richard's umbrella so that they could share it under the heavy downfall. 

Romantic and cute? Of course. But not for Ritchie. No, because he gave up his umbrella, he had to use Ty’s, the one that he's certain was used as a club to hit someone in the past. It was torn, with more holes in it than a cheese grater. The rain, fucking frigid, kept falling through, soaking him to the bone. Worst of all was that he had a weak constitution, always had. He was short and could count his individual ribs. A chilly breeze hit him like an avalanche. The raindrops smacking his back? Like Satan's own machine gun firing at him.

He made it about halfway there to the tiny dump he was staying at before letting out a massive sneeze, loud enough to rattle window panes. His coat was fully soaked, as heavy as lead, and his shoes were waterlogged, his toes in miniature pools.

He sighed. Why did he give away his umbrella again?

Another sneeze rose up and out or Ringo. Then, it echoed down the street.

No, that wasn't an echo, that was another person sneezing at the same time.

For a moment, Ringo thought about how interesting it was that they sneezed at the same time. He felt a sort of kinship over their shared nasal discharges. 

A chuckle escaped from Ringo's lips before he stifled it. People already looked down on him for being short, he didn't need to be teased for such childish thoughts.

Still, Richard went over to the cheap wooden bench the sneezing stranger, or rather, boy was seated. Ringo plopped himself down, balanced the shoddy umbrella in the crook of his elbow, and removed his shoes to dump all the water out. All the while, he cast side glances at the boy who was staring like Richard was going to eat him. 

Then, they made eye contact, and the boy huffed, glaring at Richard.

Well, he assumed it was a glare, but the boy's sharp cheekbones clashed terribly with his large ears and unibrow. He looked all goofy and Richard laughed at him against his better judgment.

With both shoes empty of water and now full of feet, Richard moved to rise—

And then caught sight of the boy's posture. His knees were drawn up to his chest, arms folded on top, head tucked into them.

He looked remarkably sad.

_ No! Richard, just ignore him and head home, to your nice dry bed. You said it yourself: you gotta serve yourself first! Don't be selfless, just go—  _

"Hey, son," Richard said, taking the umbrella and leaning it over so it covered most of the boy. The umbrella was as small as it was poorly-made, but the boy was  _ tiny,  _ his big black leather jacket making him look a lot bigger than he really was.

"So what're ye doing here sitting in the rain?" Richard asked, trying to rotate the umbrella so there wasn't a massive hole right above his head.

"...waiting," the boy mumbled.

"I see..." Richard hummed. "Waiting for what?"

"Me friends. Said they'd be here an hour ago."

Richard froze. An hour? It had been pouring for  _ three. _

"Your friends are arses if they left ye out here in the rain," he said. The boy just sighed in response.

"I bet they're drinking… or snogging some birds," he muttered. "Ye tend to forget ‘bout stuff when yer busy like tha’." His voice sounded distinctly scouse, Richard realized. It was very strained before, as if the boy was crying, but now that it was more relaxed, his words came out in a steady drawl.

"Son… I don't think they're yer friends," Richard said. At this, the boy curled up more and Richard decided to change the subject. "Ye from Liverpool?"

"Aye. And ye can stop callin’ me 'son.' You're not me da’."

"But I'm older than ye."

"I'm seventeen," the boy— er,  _ teen,  _ muttered. Richard could have sworn he was fourteen, but held his tongue.

"Looks like ye still got a lot of growin’ to do then," Richard hummed. When his new acquaintance didn't respond, he continued. "Are ye still plannin’ to sit out in the rain?"

The teen nodded, then spoke. "Ye don't have to stay here and babysit me,  _ gramps _ ," he mumbled.

That was the go-ahead to leave. The teen obviously didn't care for Richard’s attention, and huddling under the umbrella didn't help matters at all. His pink suit jacket was wet by now and it was going to be a pain to clean, especially since it was his official uniform and he only had the one.

Man, fuck Rory.

But yet… the teen looked so sad. It was hard to tell because of the rain but he was certain he had been crying. If Richard's mates were here, they would have laughed at him for being a sissy, acting like a heartbroken bird, but alone? Richard felt sympathy.

"You should probably head home," Richard said, standing up. "Don't want to get pneumonia or something."

That caused the teen to shift in his seat, looking around uneasily. "I  _ would,  _ but there's only two keys for the room, an’ Paul and John have ‘em."

_ Oh. _

"And they just left ye here?"

The teen nodded.

"Well, I don't know who John-and-Paul are," Richard said, slurring the two names together into a monstrous mass, "but they're arses if they left ye out here."

"Probably pukin’ in a dumpster somewhere," the teen said, smiling at the mental image. In all honesty, his friends came across more as inconsiderate douches, like  _ Rory-fucking-Storm—  _

"Well, I'm— er— gonna head back to me place," Richard said, and then prayed his next words wouldn't stab him in the foot later. "...yer welcome to come."

"No thanks," the teen hummed. "Not in the mood to get robbed by a stranger."

"If that's what you think..." Richard hummed before twisting on his heel and setting off. He took about seven steps before he heard a rustle and the pitter-pat of boots stomping in puddles.

The teen bounded up to him and huddled up under the umbrella, burying himself into Richard's side. He was actually taller than Richard, and it was shocking because he looked and acted like he was younger.

"What's your name? I realized I never asked."

"George," the teen replied. “You?”

"Richard. Although me stage name’s Ringo."

"I think I might have heard tha’ before," George muttered. "Yer in that band, right? The one with the pink suits?"

Richard groaned.

"Yeah that's me," he lamented. Despite his miserable attitude, George seemed to blossom, warmth hitting his face.

"I think that's really gear," he said. "I'm in a band too, y’know, The Beetles. Well, John spells it with two A's, ‘Be-ah-tahls.’ Silly, innit?"

"Uh yeah," Richard said, amazed at how quickly George had opened up. He couldn't say he recognized the beetle name, it only sounding vaguely familiar.

"You know, we're gonna make it big," George prattled on.

"You don't say," Richard mumbled, "but ye only get to stay at me place for the night."

"Yeah, yeah, 'course," George said. "I… I—" Suddenly, George lept to the side awkwardly, almost falling over, and a sneeze exploded out of his face. He stood there for a moment, gasping, shuddering.

All the while, Richard cursed his luck. The kid was  _ sick,  _ and he was about to let him stay at  _ his place—  _

He froze, trying desperately not to let the paranoia show on his face but his mind was moving a mile-a-minute, trying to work out how to let George down gently.

_ “Sorry, but I don’t want to catch a cold and  _ **_die._ ** _ ” _

No, too harsh.

_ “Look over there!” and make a run for it. _

No, that’d just break the poor boy’s heart.

_ “I’m really sorry, but I don’t feel comfortable sleeping with a sick kid.” _

Richard sighed. He offered to let George spend the night, he couldn’t remove that offering now that George had taken it. He was too soft and kind-hearted.

“Don’t let me mates know I’m takin’ ye in,” Richard warned, fearing their reactions. It's like Richard had taken in a stray.

" 'Course," George whispered. It seemed that sneeze had taken out a hunk of his voice with it. 

Whatever. Richard would make him sleep on the floor. 

They marched through the rain, George's declining health shutting him up. Richard was thankful; his head was pounding. Their legs automatically stepped in sync down the pavement, time blending until they reached a familiar building. No one else was there, the rest of his band having gone to party and enjoy themselves, much like George's friends.

"Hah," Richard chuckled. Him and Geo, they were like kindred spirits. Two stray dogs, huddled under an umbrella, too naive and kind for their own good.

There was something poetic there, if only Richard was more articulate to put it into words.

They went inside and Richard clicked the switch of the umbrella and tugged at the head to close it—

But it didn't budge.

He pulled again, harder and firmer this time, and it slid a bit.

"Oi, take it easy on tha—"

Before George could finish, the umbrella snapped in two.

"It's fine," Richard said, chuckling as he tossed the broken umbrella in the corner. "Piece o' garbage anyways." 

He unlocked the door to the cramped room he was staying in and began to shed his soaked clothes. They peeled off in layers, until Richard was clad in nothing but his boxers. (They were wet too but like hell he was going to take them off in front of Geo.)

George, seeing Richard, echoed the motion, shrugging off his jacket so it collapsed onto the floor with a wet  _ plop!  _ He kicked off those tacky cowboy boots and then got to work shimmying off his tight leather drainies. The moisture made them stick to his skin like glue and it took several minutes of work to fully expose George's bare legs. Then, he took off his plain, white t-shirt.

"God, ye really are tiny," Richard murmured, his words causing George to cause and cross his arms, covering up his chest. He looked pale and gangly, his damp hair falling over his face, covering his eyes.

Richard was going to make him sleep on the floor, but…

"C'mere," he said, lifting up his singular blanket. "Get in."

"No, it's yer bed—"

"Yer a human, not a pet dog. Now  _ c'mere. _ " At his second command, George obeyed, crawling in next to Richard.

"Th-Thanks," he whispered, so quiet yet so overjoyed that Richard couldn't help but smile.

Sure, he didn't intend to be sharing a bed with anyone that night, but it felt good to do the right thing. 

And besides, if he got sick, he could blame it on Rory stealing his umbrella.


End file.
